


Wrote My Way to Revolution

by Willowe



Series: automaton!AU [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, automaton Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowe/pseuds/Willowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander cannot change his status as an automaton, cannot make himself be more than he was made to be. But there is a difference between being The Automaton War-Hero and being The Automaton Secretary, and Alexander would rather sacrifice himself on the battlefield than let himself be remembered as the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrote My Way to Revolution

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I didn't expect to get that many positive responses to the first story?? Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos, you're the best!

“You cannot be seriously suggesting what your words are implying, good sir!”

Alexander watches the brewing confrontation closely, torn between amusement at his friends’ outrage and the worry that they will push the issue too far. He’s known for some time the things that are being said about his responses to Samuel Seabury and he assumed that his friends had heard been hearing the same gossip. Apparently, that’s not the case.

“I’m not saying that the automaton didn’t write the words, but there is simply no way that a non-human produced such eloquent responses without substantial editing and assistance,” the man says. For someone who is being cornered by both Laurens and Mulligan, with Lafayette watching the altercation just as closely as Alexander, he is doing a remarkable job of maintaining his bravado.

“You seriously think that we rewrote Hamilton’s responses for him.” Laurens shakes his head in disbelief. “I know you aren’t familiar with his work, so let me be painfully blunt about this: Alexander Hamilton can write circles around any of us, myself included. He didn’t need us to edit his responses to Seabury.”

The man rolls his eyes. “It is truly admirable that you are trying to help the automaton gain recognition in this way-”

Both Mulligan and Laurens move forward at the same time, but its Mulligan who reaches the man first. He grabs the front of the man’s shirt and pulls him forward, so they are face-to-face when he says, in a deadly quiet voice, “’The automaton’ has a name: Alexander Hamilton. You would do well to remember it, because this will not be the last time you hear it.”

He shoves the man back, causing him to stumble and fight to maintain his balance. Laurens ruins that by kicking him in the back of the leg, sending him sprawling. “And you would do well to cease this sort of talk altogether,” Laurens tells him. “Or else you will find us less understanding if we should encounter you again.”

The man scrambles to his feet, glaring at them both. “If you are willing to lie as a favor to that automaton, you should be willing to listen when people call you out on it,” he spits out.

Mulligan and Laurens both take a step towards the man and Alexander lunges forward, catching the back of their coats and holding them back. The cogs in his arms protest loudly against the strain being put on them, but even the combined strength of his friends is no match for his own.

“Glad to see the automaton at least still has manners,” the man sneers.

It is only the fact that Alexander unconsciously clenches his hands tighter that stops Laurens and Mulligan from breaking free and flying at the man in a rage. As it is Alexander can hear at least one of their coats tearing in his grip, even over the sound of them shouting new insults and threats at the man as he makes a hasty retreat.

Alexander only lets his friends go when he can be certain that they will not chase down the man, and Laurens turns on him immediate. “You should not have held us back!” he says hotly. “That idiot deserved a sound beating for the things he was saying about you! The nerve of him, suggesting that you did not write those responses yourself!”

“He’s not the only one,” Alexander tells him, trying not to let his own frustrations color his tone. He is used to this happening. That does not make it any easier to accept, but it does allow him to be remain relatively level-headed in the face of his friends’ rightful anger.

“ _He’s not the only one?_ ” Laurens repeats incredulously, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “And you just let them keep saying things like that?”

“What would you have me do, Laurens?” Alexander’s patience is already worn thin from this unfortunate altercation, and his friends are sorely testing him now. “It’s all well and good for you to confront people in the streets, but if the authorities are alerted you are not the one who will be hauled away in shackles! Or perhaps I can publish a response to all the naysayers, so that they can insist that you wrote that for me as well! What _precisely_ would you have me do here, Laurens?”

The fight leaves his friends slowly as Hamilton speaks, and Laurens sighs dejectedly at Alexander’s question. “I do not know,” he is forced to admit. “I only wish there was something that could be done to change their ridiculous notions about you.”

“Some people are already changing their beliefs,” Lafayette chimes in. “Not everyone believes your responses to Seabury were edited by your friends.”

“A small minority, perhaps,” Alexander admits. “Still, I suppose it is a start.”

Barely any progress at all, but Alexander has learned to take what few victories he can find. It’s a cold comfort during the long, sleepless nights he spends hunched over a desk, writing not only publications about the revolution but also completing any meager scraps of work that people are willing to entrust to an automaton. And while there are a few people who refuse to pay him a full salary for his work, many more begin to see the quality of the writing he produces. Either they accept that the writing is his own or they simply do not care; gossip in the streets drops considerably, and Alexander is not going to question why.

But the war wages ever closer to New York, and free time to write is a luxury that Alexander no longer has. Days are spent training with his militia company, nights are spent studying military strategy. The promotion he receives comes as a shock; he almost wonders if perhaps it was intended for someone different, or else if the officer who made the decision didn’t know that he was promoting an automaton. Still, Laurens, Mulligan, and Lafayette take him out in celebration. Alexander cannot get drunk, but they enjoy themselves enough for him and he finds that he is quite alright with this arrangement.

It is the morning following their celebrations, when all of his friends are still sleeping off their poor decisions from the night before, that the messenger arrives with a missive from Major General Nathanael Greene. There is no mistaking the look of distrust that the messenger gives him as he hands the letter over, but his tone is civil as he says, “The Major General has requested an immediate response. If you would be prompt in reading the contents of this letter…?”

“Of course, of course,” Alexander says distractedly, already quickly reading over the message himself. It does not take him long to finish reading the brief letter, but it takes several read-throughs before his mind fully comprehends what exactly is being offered.

“Nathanael Greene wishes me to join his staff?” Alexander asks in disbelief, glancing up from the missive to look at the messenger.

The man hesitates for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with talking directly to Alexander, but finally nods. “Yes. A position as one of his aides.”

But why him, of all people? Why the automaton? Alexander rereads the letter in his hand, and finds his answer almost immediately. No mention is made of his recent promotion in the militia, or the military studies he has been making. No, the focus is on his writing- the quality of his work, yes, but also the _quantity_ of writing that he has already been able to publish, to say nothing of the private work he has taken on.

“He wants me to be a _secretary_ ,” Alexander says, spitting out the last word like it was some sort of insult. “A glorified letter-writer, useful only because I can write faster than any human can. No, sir. Please inform the Major General that I will not be accepting his proposition.”

“You’re making a mistake,” the messenger tells him. “An automaton like yourself can never hope for a better position than this.”

“Nevertheless, I will take my chances on the battlefield,” Alexander says coldly. “I will prove myself in battle, or die trying. Now good day, sir. Please close the door on your way out.”

Alexander burns the letter before his friends wake up, and does not breathe a word of it to them. He knows what their reaction would be, and knows that they have far more important matters to concern themselves with than something as trivial as this. Still, he seethes silently at the presumptuous nature of the offer, of the implication that he can do no better than to churn out reports and letters on someone else’s orders.

Luckily, the war provides distraction enough. Alexander leads a successful raid to steal cannons from the Battery. When the regiment balks at taking orders from an automaton, Mulligan and Laurens at least are there to threaten and taunt the men into action. Still, it galls Alexander to still be dismissed so easily simply because he is not human. Not even the praise he receives from his commanders is enough to take away the sting of his own militia regiment looking down on him.

When the second messenger arrives not two days after the raid, Alexander at first thinks that it’s another attempt from Major General Greene to recruit him for his own staff. He’s just about to send them away without reading the letter when Laurens and Mulligan walk into the room, and immediately go on the defensive.

“What’s all this?” Laurens asks, moving quickly to stand by Alexander, no doubt assuming that the messenger is there to cause problems for Alexander.

Mulligan snatches the letter and tears it open to read it himself, his eyebrows raising in shock as he scans the contents. “An offer for a position on Henry Knox’s staff?”

Henry Knox. That’s a new development that Alexander hadn’t seen coming.

Still, his answer is the same. “I am not interested in becoming one of his many secretaries,” Alexander tells the messenger. “My answer is no.”

“Don’t you even want to read it first?” Mulligan asks, waving the letter in front of his face.

“It’s not going to say anything that I haven’t already heard from Major General Greene,” he says dismissively.

“Wait, _what_?”

Alexander had forgotten that he never told his friends about the first offer he received, but before he can come up with any sort of acceptable explanation the messenger says, “I’d take the offer, if I were you. You think anyone in your regiment enjoys serving alongside an automaton? Your presence amongst the soldiers will drive them to desertion, unlike you take this position and remove yourself from the battlefield!”

A cold fear grips Alexander. Is that true? Are his fellow soldiers really threatening desertion, rather than having to fight alongside him? But to target _him_ , rather than address the shameful cowardice of the men… Alexander’s fear turns swiftly into rage at the injustice of this situation, his hands clenching into fists at his side. He does not notice the messenger’s face turning deathly pale with terror, but Mulligan is quick to usher the man out of the room before Alexander can do something regrettable- like punching the messenger in his smug face.

“Surely, he cannot be telling the truth!” Alexander says before the door is even fully closed. “There cannot be so many men who would rather give up this cause rather than fight alongside an automaton!”

He’s expecting his friends to be as outraged by this as he is, and he’s immediately taken aback when instead they look at each other guiltily and don’t say anything. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Mulligan nods. “We’ve heard some of the men talking, and we’ve tried to… dissuade them.”

“You mean you threatened them, like you were threatening people after my responses to Seabury were published,” Alexander interrupts. “But you never said anything to me- why? Do you think I’m incapable of taking care of myself?”

“Of course not!” Laurens snaps. “But you said it yourself after Seabury, Hamilton. What, _precisely_ , can you do to stop them from desertion?”

Alexander does not at all like his own words being thrown in his face. “I could have reported them to their commander!” he retorts hotly.

“That’s exactly what we did,” Mulligan says, sounding tired rather than sharing Laurens’ frustration. “We told our commanding officers. I’d wager that’s why Knox sent this messenger here today.”

“Or Greene tipped him off,” Laurens says. “Which, speaking of keeping secrets, what was that about?”

“I received a similar proposition from Nathanael Greene several weeks ago, and also turned it down. I will not be chained to a desk for the rest of this war!” he says vehemently. “I would rather keep watch during every long night when I do not require rest, than bow out of battle altogether and spend every minute of my time churning out letters and orders on someone else’s command!”

There is no glory in being someone else’s aide-de-camp. There is no hope of remembrance if you die as a secretary, no chance of advancing your position in society without accomplishing great deeds. Alexander cannot change his status as an automaton, cannot make himself be more than he was made to be. But there is a difference between being The Automaton War-Hero and being The Automaton Secretary, and Alexander would rather sacrifice himself on the battlefield than let himself be remembered as the latter.

Laurens eyes light up at Alexander’s words, full of that same fire and foolhardy bravery that the automaton feels within himself, the same spark that drove Lafayette across the sea to fight in a revolution that wasn’t his own. It’s the look that he sees far more rarely in Mulligan, only really there after a successful skirmish or raid, when the worry fades away and is replaced with a mixture of relief and pride.

It’s why Alexander is not surprised that Mulligan announces that he is staying in New York when the army begins their strategic retreat out of the city. In private, he tells them that he has joined the Sons of Liberty and will be starting espionage work as soon as the army is gone. In private, Alexander and Laurens worry far more about his safety than they ever did when he was alongside them in the thick of the fight. But they cannot afford to lose much time to grief and fear. The army slips out of confrontation with the enemy to prevent widespread casualties, and Alexander all but gives up his writing entirely in favor of extra shifts as the night watch, or scouting ahead to track the movements of the British, or any such effort that can prove his willingness to do whatever it takes to win the war.

But his efforts do not stop his fellow soldiers from whispering about him, their nervousness in the face of something unfamiliar making them immediately fearful of him. When the reflection of his glass eyes in the dark of the night startles too many of the men, he’s pulled off of guard duty. When the clicking of his mechanical joints frightens his compatriots out of their sleep, he is banned from sharing a tent with any of them. Finding himself an outcast in the army, and with Mulligan in New York and Lafayette in command, Alexander is left to share a tent with only Laurens.

“Truly, I do not mind,” his friend tells him with a laugh. “You are a far better companion than Mulligan, for at least I know you will not keep me awake with your snoring!”

“No, instead I will keep you awake with my endless writing,” Alexander counters. Now, without any actual work to distract him during the long nights when he does not sleep, his writing has once again become the only distraction to pass the time.

Laurens shrugs. “You forget that I too often keep late hours to complete my own work,” he points out. “At least this way, we can work on our essays against slavery together.”

Alexander forces a smile, but even the support of his friend does little to quell his fear. He has no hope of ever gaining a command if he is continually pushed to the sidelines, and part of him wonders how long it will be before he is pushed out of the army altogether simply because his fellow soldiers are wary of his presence amongst them.

When the summons from Washington arrives, Alexander almost does not believe it. He stares at the missive long after the messenger himself has left, the short note telling him to report to Washington’s headquarters at eight o’clock precisely the following morning. He knows that the handwriting is not that of Washington himself, but rather one of his many aide-de-camps. And yet the words, the orders, do come from the General himself.

Unfortunately, there is no indication in the orders as to the reason why Washington wishes to see him and late that night, when it is only himself and Laurens in their tent and most of the camp has long since fallen asleep, Alexander allows himself to voice his fears.

“What if Washington wishes to terminate my service in the army?” Alexander asks worriedly staring up at the canvas ceiling of their shared tent. He had consumed a dose of whale oil earlier in the evening, usually enough to put him into the equivalent of a light doze as his system reset itself, but it has yet to take effect.

“He would be a fool to do so,” Laurens says firmly. He’s propped up on one elbow to study Alexander’s profile carefully. “You took on more guard shifts, while you were permitted to do so, and helped transport more of the supplies, to say nothing of your letter campaigns to garner support for the revolution and the strategy you showed in New York when you arranged the efforts to steal the British cannons-”

“Strategy that would have been in vain if you and Mulligan had not helped convince the others to listen to an automaton like me,” Alexander says miserably. “I am not a fool, Laurens. I know what the others say of me. I know they think me a machine, lesser than even plantation slaves in my lack of true life. I know the whispers among some of the men, the belief that I am an unholy creation who should be destroyed before I betray the revolution and bring ruin down upon us all.”

“They are wrong, in every way conceivable.” Laurens’ vehemence catches Alexander off-guard and he glances over at his friend, who is tense with a barely-contained fury. “I too have heard those ideas, whispered in the dark corners of the camp where the men think they will not be overheard. But they are the minority, Hamilton, and they are wrong to speak thusly. You must believe that, my friend. Do not take their words to heart, for you are worth ten of every one of them.”

Alexander smiles, tiny and hesitant, but his friend’s words calm some of his fears. “So why do you believe Washington wishes to speak with me on the morrow, if not to cast me out of the Continental Army?”

“Who can guess what plans the General has in his mind? But whatever his wishes to speak to you about, I am certain that it will only be positive,” Laurens assures him. “Perhaps you will finally receive the promotion that you have more than earned!”

Alexander laughs. “A promotion? My dear Laurens, the General would never promote an automaton like myself! Certainly not when I am the most hated man in camp!”

But oh, what Alexander would give for a chance like that! One opportunity to prove his worth before Washington, to gain the command that is necessary to his plans to socially advance himself after the war. In command, he could prove that he is equal to any naturally-born man.

It is an impossible dream. Alexander knows this. But it is still the reason why he pushes himself harder, even in the face of resistance from his fellow soldiers.

Laurens stifles a yawn. “There is no one who deserves a promotion more than you, Alexander. The General would be a fool not to see that,” he says tiredly, startling his friend with the gentle use of his Christian name rather than the teasing tone that he was expecting. “But come now, we are both in need of rest. It will not do to present yourself to the General tomorrow with creaking joints and sluggish movements!”

Alexander does manage to doze off, or at least whatever equivalent state is possible for a creation such as himself. He wakes before Laurens does, as is usual on the occasions when he does not spend the entire night awake to begin with. It is his plan to leave before his friend awakes, to find some solitary spot on the edges of camp to collect himself before his meeting with the General, but Laurens wakes before he can sneak away undetected.

“You did not think that I would let you walk to this meeting alone, did you?” he teases. Alexander knows, without Laurens needing to say anything, that his friend will always be waiting for him after the meeting as well, and he is filled with a surge of gratitude that he can count a man such as this among his few friends.

It is late enough in the morning that the majority of their fellow soldiers have already risen, and there are many pairs of eyes that track their movements as they cross the encampment towards Washington’s tent. Alexander does his best to ignore them, keeps his head high and pretends that his above-average hearing does not hear the whispers that follow them.

He thinks back on his friend’s words from last night and does his best to take them to heart, trusting in his friend’s confidence that this meeting will not mark the end of his contributions to the revolution.

Laurens is not permitted to enter Washington’s command headquarters with him, so Alexander walks in alone. He is surprised to see Aaron Burr already in meeting with the General, and though he has only seen Washington in brief moments of passing he does not believe the meeting to be going well. “Your Excellency, you wanted to see me?” he interjects, before Burr can continue speaking and when it is clear that the General has nothing to say at the moment.

“Hamilton, come in,” the General says, ushering him to further enter into the tent. “Have you met Burr?”

“Yes sir.” Hamilton glances over at Burr. “We keep meeting.”

And they do, in battle or passing through camp. Somehow, they always seem to end up in the same place at the same time. More miraculous is the fact that Aaron Burr remains one of the few men to not speak ill of Hamilton; whether it is a true acceptance, or Burr simply not wishing to commit to an opinion of the automaton, Alexander does not know. Still, he is privately grateful that there is one less person in camp who hates him.

“As I was saying, sir, I look forward to seeing your strategy play out,” Burr says, sounding like he’s gearing up for another round of conversation with the General.

Washington clearly has other plans. “Burr?”

“Yes sir?”

“Close the door on your way out.”

Alexander is sure that if he had a heart it would be racing with nerves. The General is almost certainly in a poor mood, and that does not bode well for him. “Have I done something wrong, sir?” he ventures, after a moment of silence from Washington.

“On the contrary, I have called you here because our odds are rather poor,” Washington tells him, much to Hamilton’s cautious surprise. He can’t quite puzzle out why he in a meeting with Washington, but he wants to believe the General when he says that he is not here due to some fault of his own.

“Your reputation precedes you, you know,” Washington says. “I am aware that it was your plan to steal British cannons when we were still downtown, and it was thanks to you that the plan was executed successfully. And yet, you have turned down offers from Knox and Green to join their staff-”

“To be their secretaries,” Alexander spits out. “I don’t think so.”

“Why are you upset?” Washington asks, as calm and collected as ever.

Meanwhile, Alexander scrambles to collect himself. “I’m… not,” he lies weakly, knowing full well that the General can see through him.

“I understand, you wish to fight,” Washington says. “I was just like you when I was younger. Full of fantasies of dying like a martyr-”

“Yes,” Alexander admits freely, because God help him but it’s true. He does not know to what degree he can said to be _alive_ , but he only knows that he has continued to exist even when many true humans, good, kind humans, have perished around him. If he is still here, despite all odds, despite all reason, why shouldn’t he sacrifice himself for the betterment of the revolution? For all his dreams of advancing his status after the war, who’s to say that death on the battlefield is not the only way to truly prove himself in this fight for independence?

“Dying is easy, young man,” Washington tells him sternly. “Living is harder.”

It takes a moment for the General’s words to really hit him, but when they do Alexander is left reeling. No one talks to him of his own life and death, because it is taken for granted that neither concept applies to him. And how they could? He was not born, but created. When a clock is broken beyond repair, you do not talk of it dying from the damage it sustained. Alexander knows he is more than a clock, more than a simple machine, and yet he is not human. He is not _alive_ , not truly, no matter that he feels and thinks and exists just as humans do.

He accepted, many years ago, that without knowledge of how he was made he cannot be expected to properly maintain his mechanical functions. The fact that he has been on this Earth for over two decades is nothing less than a miracle in his mind; anything past this point is truly borrowed time. He longs for a promotion, wants to advance his station and prove himself to the humans around him more fiercely than anything else. But at the end of the day, why should he get such an advantage when he could stop functioning at any moment, without warning or prior knowledge?

Why shouldn’t he take more risks than his compatriots, when they are capable of feeling pain and he is not? When they have the promise of decades of life in front of them, and Alexander can never be guaranteed of another mere day?

And yet, here is Washington speaking of the difficulties of life, as if this is something that Alexander will experience. _As if Alexander himself is human_.

No one else has treated him so easily like their equal. Only Laurens, Lafayette, and Mulligan come close, but even they accept that he is not like them. They joke about it, they defend him against others, and his differences have only strengthened their friendship- but nevertheless, the differences are there.

Washington speaks as if there are no differences between them.

And Alexander does not know what to do with that.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks softly. _Why do you speak to me as an equal?_

“I am being honest. We are working with only a third of what Congress has promised us. Frankly, we are a powder keg waiting to explode.” Washington is as strictly professional as ever and Hamilton quickly scrambles to regain his own composure. Whatever the General’s motivations in treating him like a real person, Hamilton cannot let his own emotions get the best of him.

But then, Washington says, “I am in need of a person such as yourself to help lighten my load. Someone with your intelligence and yes, your particular super-human strengths- strengths that are sorely needed not only in this office, but by my side in battles. Make no mistake, Hamilton. This is indeed another offer for a position as Secretary, but as an aide-de-camp your duties would not be confined solely to paperwork. And even amongst my aides, I need a man willing to rise up and take on more responsibility than most.”

Alexander is silent for a long moment. There’s no way that Washington isn’t aware of all of Hamilton’s faults and flaws and fears, everything that caused him to turn down those previous offers, but he’s grateful that the General doesn’t see fit to mention them directly.

And yet, Washington makes a point of addressing every single one of them in subtle ways. He’s not pulling Hamilton off the battlefield. He’s not confining him solely to paperwork, and even if he does have need of Hamilton’s automaton talents that is not the only reason he’s making this offer. He wants Hamilton for his intelligence, his ingenuity, for his- for lack of a better term- his _human_ qualities.

Washington sees him as a person, when no one else has. The fact that a position this close to the General would afford him the necessary opportunities to petition for a command does not escape his attention either.

“Your Excellency, I would be honored to accept such an offer, and a position on your staff,” Alexander finally tells him.

“This will not be an easy position, Hamilton,” Washington warns him. “We are severely outgunned and outmanned in this war.”

Alexander hears what he says, but he’s already making plans of his own. “I have friends, trustworthy men who will help in whatever way they can,” he says. “John Laurens would make an excellent aide-de-camp. You have already made the Marquis de Lafayette a Major General, but his battle strategy is unparalleled and I know that he has been tireless in his efforts to gain French aid for our cause. And Hercules Mulligan is working with the Sons of Liberty back in New York. No doubt he would be able to use his position to get us specific information of British movements.”

“We are still outnumbered by the British,” Washington tells him. “And they have out-planned us at every turn.”

“Then we must outsmart them,” Alexander says. “We must find some spies willing to infiltrate the British lines, or else acquire us a double agent to smuggle us information- and to whom we can send false information back to our enemy.

“As to our declining numbers, we must write to Congress and get more supplies. We cannot sustain our current numbers if we cannot feed the men who are already enlisted, and no more will join the fight without the promise of food to fill their bellies after a battle. If Congress will not provide us with more aid, as I suspect they will not, we must double our efforts to buy supplies from the towns we pass by. I know of several men who I believe would be the most successful at a task such as that- I can put together a rotation by this evening if you wish, Sir.”

Another thought occurs to him and Alexander keeps talking, unintentionally not giving Washington even a moment to respond. “Sir, what is the state of the intelligence you are receiving from your espionage agents? Do we have anything of high importance in writing, and if so how are those papers being secured? Has any of this information been sent to Congress, or to France? I know that the Marquis has spoken to you about his letters to France, but has he-”

Washington holds up a hand to silence him and Alexander abruptly stops talking, suddenly acutely aware of his rambling. “My apologies, your Excellency,” he says quietly, immediately fearful that the General might already be regretting this appointment.

To his surprise, Washington smiles faintly. “It is quiet alright. As I said earlier, your reputation precedes you. To answer a few of your questions, we are certainly lacking the volume of intelligence that we need in order to win this war, and little of that information is in writing. None of it has been sent to Congress or abroad, for fear of it falling into enemy hands. I want you to start working on that roster of men to send into towns seeking supplies immediately. Bring it back here for my review at sundown; you will begin work as my aide-de-camp tonight. In the meantime, you will be staying in a tent with the other aides, so as to not wake your fellow soldiers with the long hours you will be keeping-”

“That won’t be necessary, Sir,” Alexander tells him. “I share a tent with only Colonel Laurens, and he is already used to the unusual hours that I keep. I… do not require much rest, Your Excellency.”

Washington frowns. “Space in our encampment is limited. How is it that you two have managed to secure a private tent for yourselves?”

If there was blood pumping through Hamilton’s body, he is sure that his face would be flushed bright red. “It was not intentional, sir,” he mutters, fixing his eyes somewhere over Washington’s left shoulder so he didn’t have to look at the General directly. “My presence makes the other men uncomfortable. It was suggested that I seek my rest away from the other soldiers. Lieutenant Colonel Laurens followed me out of a loyalty to our friendship.”

He doesn’t add that Laurens also followed him so he could watch Alexander’s back, in case one of the other soldiers tried to cause problems for him. It’s the same reason that Lafayette can often be found spending what little free time he has in their company; it’s a sign of support, of solidarity, but also a warning to the soldiers that Alexander is protected, not to be harmed.

It irks Alexander, to be protected like a young maiden in need of coddling, even if he understands the unfortunate necessity of it. But still, it is not something that he is going to explain to the General, not if he can help it.

Perhaps Washington picks up on what Alexander doesn’t say. It certainly wouldn’t surprise the automaton if that was the case. “Be that as it may,” the General says, “As my right-hand man amongst the aides-de-camp, you will be privy to information not available to the Continental Army at large. As much as I may trust in your honor and your judgement of your friend, it would be a breach of protocol to let this arrangement continue.”

“Yes Sir,” Alexander replies. It is understandable, but Alexander still dreads having to tell Laurens of this particular bit of news. His friend will see reason, of that he has no doubt, but he knows that the other soldiers will not take too kindly to Laurens’ presence among them. If the enlisted men do not like Alexander being in the Army, they too have little love for the humans that he is fortunate enough to call friends.

Washington studies him for a long moment, and Alexander struggles to stay quiet and give the General time and space to collect his thoughts. Alexander knows that he won’t get another opportunity like this, and he is not going to ruin this for himself.

“You mentioned Colonel Laurens earlier,” Washington finally says. “Would he be willing to accept an aide-de-camp position alongside yourself?”

Alexander has to smother the wide grin that threatens to break out across his face. “I do believe that he would, Your Excellency.”

“Good.” Washington nods once, and glances down at his pocket watch. “Bring him with you when you return this evening. You are dismissed.”

“Yes sir,” Alexander says, saluting the General and walking out of the tent.

Laurens is waiting just around the corner from Washington’s headquarters, far enough away to ensure that the General’s guards wouldn’t have been bothering him about lurking nearby. Alexander can see the line of grass that his friend has trampled with his pacing, but when he catches sight of Alexander Laurens stops his anxious movements, quickly scanning for any sign that the meeting went poorly.

Alexander can pinpoint the exact moment that Laurens begins to relax, some of the tension bleeding out of his frame and relief evident in his eyes. “What did the General wish to speak to you about?” he asks.

Only now does Alexander fully realize what just transpired, and the position he now finds himself in. “I just accepted his offer to become one of his aides,” he says in quiet disbelief.

“What? But… You’ve already turned down Knox and Greene,” Laurens points out with no small amount of confusion. “Why would you become a secretary now?”

“Because this was the correct decisions,” Alexander tells him firmly. He is absolutely sure of this course of action; now, he just needs to convince Laurens of that fact. “I will be in constant contact with Washington, and thus can petition for my own command more easily. I will no longer have to worry about being pushed out of the army, or be on constant watch for retaliation from the men-”

“Even a position with Washington himself may not stop that,” Laurens interrupts. “You underestimate their fear of you, my friend.”

“Let them fear me,” Alexander snaps. “I do not care. Laurens, this was the right decision, I know it was. Working under Washington will be nothing like working for Greene and Knox.”

“How can you be so sure?” Laurens presses. “How can you know that this is not simply another attempt to chain you to a desk and keep you from fighting?”

Alexander glances around quickly, making sure that no one is nearby who can overhear this conversation. “Because he spoke to me as an equal,” he says softly, so only Laurens can hear him. “He treated me like I was truly human, and like I truly belonged in this revolution. Would Knox or Greene have done as much?”

Laurens sighs, and shakes his head. “No, they would not,” he admits.

Alexander did not realize that he had been so worried about Laurens’ reaction, until he feels his own tension suddenly drain away. But he remembers something else that was discussed with Washington and quickly adds, “I also might have volunteered your services to the General as an aide-de-camp as well. I would be most grateful if you considered taking the position. I would enjoy working alongside you.”

“Why am I not surprised that you secured a position for me as well?” Laurens rolls his eyes, but the smile he gives Alexander is fond. “Yes, Alexander. Becoming an aide along with yourself sounds like a great idea.”

Alexander beams at his friend, moved beyond words at the events of that morning. For the first time since receiving the offer from Nathanael Greene he feels like, perhaps, things may turn out in his favor after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes on historical (in)accuracy:
> 
> 1) Hamilton did receive a small promotion and lead the raid to steal British cannons. I have no idea of the timeline of when he started receiving offers to serve on various staffs, so I centered it around the cannon-stealing raid for plot convenience. I also followed the musical timeline of having this happen during the Battle of Brooklyn, again for plot convenience.
> 
> 2) Mulligan is frustrating to no end, I'm sorry. I know in the musical he's around until "Stay Alive", but it's easier to write him as staying in New York when the army leaves instead of having to write him leaving later. (Also a nod to his "loco parentis" line in My Shot; he is much older than Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette and I imagine he's less affected by the revolutionary fervor that they are, which influences his decision to stay behind and start spying instead).
> 
> 3) Laurens didn't meet Hamilton until they both (independently) became aides-de-camp under Washington. However, I liked the musical idea of Hamilton telling Washington that he has three friends who can help out (especially after the last story where he barely trusts them- now Hamilton is not only friends, but trusts them enough to recommend their services to Washington himself).
> 
> 4) I am not a historian. There are probably more inaccuracies than this, but tbh they're not getting corrected so... my apologies for that!


End file.
